


Mad Bitch Convention

by crystalsoulslayer



Category: Class (TV 2016), Doctor Who
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Predicament Bondage, Rope Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-28 23:47:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8467705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystalsoulslayer/pseuds/crystalsoulslayer
Summary: Quill doesn't have many choices in her new life. Submitting to Missy is one she makes happily.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FernDavant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FernDavant/gifts).



> Shoutout to FernDavant for the beta. Also, for putting up with my rambling nonsense in general.

Charlie and Matteusz don't seem to care. Which isn't exactly shocking, but she'd be lying if she said it didn't bother her. They live in the same house, for heaven's sake. She can't lie to Charlie, so she's glad he doesn't ask where she goes; what bothers her is that, as far as she can tell, he doesn't notice she's gone in the first place. Her presence is demanded when he needs her, and is otherwise irrelevant.

Monday, back to school. Pretend to teach the students, the students pretend to learn. Get back to the house, eat, absorb as much human culture as possible, sleep, wake up, repeat until Thursday. Thursdays are different only in that, before she goes back to the house, she stops by a grocery store. She hates grocery shopping, but if she doesn't do it, no one will. Matteusz doesn't have any money, and Charlie doesn't seem to understand the concept that food actually has to _come_ from somewhere, and doesn't simply appear from nothingness when it's required.

The exploitation of economic resources. Truly, he is a prince of his people.

Friday, instead of going back to the house, she takes a bus to the New Change / Cannon Street stop. Not a long trip, just fifteen minutes or so. She wears earphones and studiously ignores everyone, which seems to be the only way of preventing people from talking to her, no matter how vocally or obnoxiously they attempt to get her attention. There's some kind of landmark just across the road from this stop, a religious structure or something, and a lot of people go to visit it. There was a school trip there, since it's so close by. Some history thing: fires and wars and royalty. Quill isn't really that bothered.

There's a tea shop just around the corner, part of something that seems to be a large trade center. Quill heads straight there. She always orders the same thing, eats it, deep breath as she finishes. Heads toward the lavatories, but not into them. There's another door, unmarked, which no one ever seems to notice.

Another deep breath. Another. Tidy her clothes, make sure she looks all right. Deep breaths. Alien invasions are all very well, but this is serious. This is frightening.

She goes in.

  

~

 

Sunday. Back to the house. Avoid the boys, shower, sleep. She sleeps so well when she gets back. Deep and dreamless, not like the restless and paltry few hours she gets by on during the week.

Monday. Back to school.

She's taken to stretching every day, partly to alleviate the soreness, partly because you never know when something's going to invade (it's been weeks, they're overdue), and partly because she feels _everything_ this way. All the marks, all the stiffness in every muscle that have worked so hard. It hurts, of course, but it's so _good_. It's a reminder that she has something else, something that's hers and hers alone. A choice, and one she thinks she's always going to say yes to.

Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday shopping, Friday, at last, Friday. She can't get out of the building fast enough, wants to run, wants to shove everyone out of the way. But that would look odd. Even this probably looks odd, really, now she thinks of it. Long strides, quick ones, it'd be obvious to anyone how much she wants to —

"Blimey, where are _you_ going?" Ram snaps at her, as his books hit the floor. His fault for being stationary in a bloody _corridor_. The whole purpose of these is to keep moving through them. "Mad bitch convention?"

He's not wearing his backpack properly, only using one strap. She pushes it off his shoulder, overbalancing him as the weight of it catches on his arm. "Yes," she replies, smiles, and slams his locker shut. Off she goes. Not fast enough, never fast enough. She wants to fly there. The bus will have to do.

 

~

 

Quill didn't know humans could be as strong as this one. This one can hold her down, and does, keeps her pinned while she thrashes and screams and struggles, all to no avail, until she's worn out. Drenched with sweat, she waits, panting.

"You've lost." She has. She loves it. "Tell me who you serve."

"I serve you."

"Who owns you?"

"You do." Wait. Shit, no, that's not right, she's supposed to say something else, which means —

A sharp, hard slap. So strong, forceful, demanding of perfection. Quill adores her. "I'm sorry," she gasps. Her eyes water; the whole left side of her face is stinging. "I'm sorry, I… I forgot, I'll do better. Please. _Please_. I mean it, please."

Cold eyes, this woman has, a bit like Quill's own. Different, though, somehow. Steadier, more calculating, more assured. Sometimes, Quill entertains mad ideas about her being more intelligent, even though that's not really possible on the primitive rock she's found herself on.

"Why do you keep saying 'please'?" She's always so calm. Soothing, even. Or maybe that's just how her voice makes Quill feel. Soothed. All the heavens and all the hells in every culture of Creation must have conspired to design that voice.

"I don't know." It's the honest answer. Quill can't lie to Charlie, but she's always trying to find ways of manipulating the truth in any answer she gives him. She doesn’t lie here, though. Not here. Never here. She asked for the truth, and that's what Quill will provide.

"You're begging for something. What are you begging for?"

"I… I don't know."

"You don't need to answer right away. Catch your breath. Think about it."

Quill does. She breathes, as instructed. What is she begging for? Must be something she wants. What does she want? "Please forgive me. Please don't make me go."

"Why don't you want to go?"

"I need this. I need you. Please, I'm sorry."

A pause. Her gaze, boring into Quill's. She tilts her head, raises her hand and one flawless eyebrow. A question. Quill nods, and this (amazing, powerful, perfect) woman strikes her again.

God, that hurts. Quill looks back up at her, and as soon as their eyes meet —

 _Smack_. It hurts even more. Quill wonders if it’s because she hit harder, or if it's because she keeps hitting the same spot.

Quill has to be strong — that's what is wanted. She looks back at her, and the sound echoes a bit this time, Quill's left ear is ringing. Her eyes are still watering, surely from the pain. She can lie about that to herself, as long as she's not asked about it. She opens her eyes, experiences a moment of disorientation — she's looking at the wall. The last strike was so hard her head snapped to the side.

And as soon as she looks back, it happens again, a burst of pain against her cheek. Quill might actually have made a noise, might still be making noises. She can't look back. Not yet, she needs time, time for it to stop hurting.

A hand on her cheek. Gentle, but she jumps, startled. "Hush. It's all right. Who owns you?"

A second chance. Quill's heart leaps and she says, her voice high and trembling, "You own me, Mistress." She’s got the words right this time. They're true. Charlie might have the ahn in her head, but this woman owns Quill by her own choice, her own will.

Quill doesn't know her name.

"You will suffer for me."

It isn't a question, but there's something she's supposed to say. Words they'd agreed upon. "I will suffer for you."

"You will trust me."

"I will trust you."

"You will obey me."

"I will obey you." _Because I choose to. In this, I have a choice._

 

~

 

Sunday. The prince and the human are nowhere to be seen. Shower, a stretch, and holy _shit_ , she didn't know it was possible for her legs to be so sore. Completely worth it, though.

_"Very good. Stay there. The longer you can hold yourself up, the longer I'll eat you out."_

Yeah. Worth it, worth every millisecond. Mistress's mouth was so good, rough, not giving orgasms so much as demanding them. God, her smile when the timer ran out, and Quill could taste herself when Mistress kissed her. Quill collapses into her bed, runs her hands over the backs of her thighs, gently prods the bruises striping them.

She'd much rather be on the other side of that equation, of course. Tie some gorgeous girl to a table and give her the time of her life. Unfortunately, she can't. Just _considering_ something like that makes the ahn get all migraine-y at her. But receiving it is almost as fun, and anyway, she gets to decide who to receive it from, whether to receive it at all, even, though she can't imagine turning it down.

Familiar sounds from the other bedroom. Ah, yes. Both survivors of Rhodia are getting laid today.

Quill normally gets annoyed when they're this loud. She doesn't care now, though. It's easy to tune them out. She presses a finger into a bite mark Mistress left on her ribs, hisses with pain, smiles.

 

~

 

It's not the sex, or the pain, or the restraints. These are important, of course.

Mistress doesn't let Quill touch her, but by god, she does like to do the touching, and whatever toys are in play that week are _always_ less important than Mistress's hands. Even the slightest brush of fingers along her spine drives away so much of her loneliness. The pain is necessary, too, though, to drive away thought, to provide some resolution to the tension she feels at all times.

And the restraints, she needs those. She has to be tied or cuffed to something for more or less the entire time she and Mistress are together. Quill would really like to _fight_ during these sessions, but can't. Not properly. The restraints Mistress uses are something she's allowed to struggle against, to pull at with all her strength, until she doesn't have any strength left to fight them. More than that, they're _real_. Quill is always bound, but she can't see or feel what binds her. The ahn sends her feelings and itches and pains to make sure she obeys Charlie; Mistress's chains and ropes and cuffs are physical, not metaphors made of words and impulses. She finds them oddly reassuring. It's easier to justify not beating the shit out of everyone and everything she sees when she physically cannot do so.

But none of these are her _favorite_ things.

Mistress likes to play games with her. That's her favorite thing.

The game they're playing at the moment is one they've played before. Mistress doesn't give things names — she prefers showing to telling, which is fine with Quill. Internally, though, Quill will often give things names of her own. _This_ game is called "Really, Seriously, Don’t Fall Over." The procedure for this game, as with all of Mistress's games, is fairly simple. Here is the procedure:

  1. Quill holds very still. To facilitate this, there's a chair she can lean against at the beginning.
  2. Mistress gets an extremely long piece of rope and ties it around her in a pattern that Quill considers quite unnecessarily complicated for its purpose.
  3. When Mistress has finished all the knots in the unnecessarily complicated pattern, she takes the chair away.
  4. Quill continues holding still, albeit with much more difficulty, for as long as she can.
  5. When she can't hold still any more, Mistress holds her up, undoes two of the knots, lays her down on the floor, and fucks her silly.



And that's what happens. See? Simple. The most complicated thing about the whole game is, of course, the way Mistress ties the rope. There are all sorts of twists and loops and tailbacks and knots that are totally extraneous to its purpose. Quill suspects that Mistress thinks they look nice; she bases this suspicion on the fact that, when she finishes, Mistress always steps back, looks Quill up and down, and says softly, "Gorgeous girl."

(Quill likes hearing that, which is very silly. Neither the pattern, nor the way she looks in it, is of any practical significance. She likes it nonetheless.)

The rope is what makes the game a challenge. It pins both of Quill's arms behind her back, entirely immobilized; she can't move them at all. It loops around her neck, through a complicated knot at the back of her head, and threads through a metal ring embedded high up in the wall; with very little slack, the end is tied around one of her ankles. She has to keep that knee bent, her ankle tied up behind her.

The result is that Quill has to stand on one foot, and she has to balance very, very well, because if she unbalances too much, the rope tightens around her throat. If she moves the leg attached to the bound ankle, the rope tightens around her throat.

And if, as it eventually always does, the leg she's standing on cramps up and can no longer bear her weight, Quill begins, slowly, shakily, sinking to the ground, and as she does she can feel the rope pulling tighter and tighter, constricting more and more, strangling her, she can't breathe, she can't _breathe_ , she wasn't strong enough and she's going to die, it was all for nothing, this is it, she's the last and she's going to die —

— except she isn't. Mistress can always tell when it's gone far enough, and suddenly, there she is. Strong arms lifting Quill up, a steady, warm, real actual _person_ to lean against, a very firm grip indeed on one of the knots at the small of Quill's back, taking some of her weight. Her ankle comes free first, and Mistress lets it go carefully so her foot doesn't just drop to the ground. She tugs at the rope around Quill's throat, making sure it's loosened enough to be safe, and pulls it back through the metal ring, then releases the choking knot before lowering her, slowly, gently, to the ground.

She leaves Quill's arms bound. She knows Quill needs that.

Mistress sits with Quill for a few minutes, cooing to her, congratulating her on how long she lasted, telling her how strong she is, how wonderful to watch. Quill doesn't know how Mistress knows she's ready, but she does. Fingers working slow and firm on Quill's clit; sometimes it's Mistress's fingers inside her, too, but usually it's a vibrator. Quill lies under her, moaning and whimpering, pleasured and hurting at once. Mistress talks to her, all that time, telling her how happy she is to have someone so powerful beneath her, offering herself up. "Thank you," she murmurs, "for your suffering, for your trust, and for your obedience."

(Quill thinks this might be the reason the games are her favorite. She always says that at the end of every game. Always.)

By the time Mistress finishes making her come, Quill is generally a delirious puddle of endorphins. She misses quite a lot of what happens during this part, probably. Ropes are undone, legs and shoulders are rubbed and stretched, fluids are imbibed. The fluids always taste faintly sweet, but Quill can never tell whether they actually are, or if it's just some weird side effect of finally drinking some water when you've been panting and moaning for two continuous hours. Whatever. The important thing is, Mistress gives her something to drink, carries her to bed and deposits her in it.

Usually, about this time, Quill has started pawing insistently at the front of Mistress's jacket, which is her way of asking to be cuffed. Mistress obliges. She sits with Quill, running strong, possessive hands all over her, until Quill falls asleep.

 

When Quill wakes up, there's food, more beverages, and, most of the time, a quick, rough shag in the bed. Sometimes Quill falls asleep again, but usually, she just lies there, feeling as close to peaceful as she is capable of.

 

"What does it mean?" she asks absently, between deep breaths, as she stares at the far wall. It's very, very far. She's not sure what this place is, but it's very big and utterly empty, with an oddly ceremonial feel. Another religious structure, perhaps.

"What?"

"3W. It's written all over this place."

"Three Words. It's sort of an inside joke I had with a few friends. Didn't work out as planned, but I see no reason to waste a perfectly good evil lair."

"Evil lair?"

"Yeah. Like I said, it's an inside joke. Still thirsty?”

"No, not right now. Thank you, Mistress."

Fingers in her hair, toying with it. Quill closes her eyes and luxuriates in them. For a moment, she wonders whether this really _is_ an evil lair, because she's never seen anything with the name 3W on the Google Maps for this area, and actually, now that she's thinking about it, she's not quite sure _where exactly_ this place is. The length of that tunnel from the tea shop, the sheer interior scale of this place, it doesn't make any sense, how does it fit? Maybe it's under that cathedral, the famous one. Only it can't be under it, because the stairs going up at the end of that tunnel mean this place would be at ground level. That's physically impossible, they'd have to be occupying the same space simultaneously — and the tunnel, leading to a shop, like a secret entrance —

Mistress's hand moves down to her arse, fondles it delicately. Quill looks at her, meets her eyes, and it's like, for a moment, everything is… different. Everything is empty and peaceful and perfect and good.

Now Mistress is asking if she wants to play another game, and all thoughts of impossible geography are forgotten.

 

~

 

Sunday. Shower, bed. No Mistress in this bed, but that's all right.

"Miss Quill?"

It's the gay human, not the cursed gay enslaver. Instead of pretending to be asleep, she grunts back, "What?"

"You have been gone this weekend."

"Mad bitch convention. Shut the door, would you?"

She hears it click shut. She doesn't need to see Matteusz to know he's shrugging when he tells Charlie, "She said it was… a mad bitch convention? I think she doesn't want to say."

It's all she can do to keep the giggles quiet enough they won't hear. She must remember to thank Ram for using that phrase.


End file.
